fixed well in advance。 We need to book space in the stores。 So the end of February—that’s it； period。 What I like about your résumé；” he said； consulting a sheet of paper on which I could see all my titles listed； “is that you’re obviously experienced and above all you’re fast。 You deliver。”
“Never missed once；” said Rick； putting his arm round my shoulders and squeezing me。 “That’s my boy。”
“And you’re a Brit。 The ghost definitely has to be a Brit； I think。 To get the jolly old tone right。”
“We agree；” said Kroll。 “But everything will have to be done in the States。 Adam’s completely locked in to a lecture tour there right now； and a fund…raising program for his foundation。 I don’t see him coming back to the UK till March at the earliest。”
“A month in America； that’s fine—yes？” Rick glanced at me eagerly。 I could feel him willing me to say yes； but all I was thinking was： a month； they want me to write a book in a month…
I nodded slowly。 “I suppose I can always bring the manuscript back here to work on。”
“The manuscript stays in America；” said Kroll flatly。 “That’s one of the reasons Marty made the house on the Vineyard available。 It’s a secure environment。 Only a few people are allowed to handle it。”
“Sounds more like a bomb than a book！” joked Quigley。 Nobody laughed。 He rubbed his hands unhappily。 “You know； I will need to see it myself at some point。 I am supposed to be editing it。”
“In theory；” said Maddox。 “Actually we need to talk about that later。” He turned to Kroll。 “There’s no room in this schedule for revisions。 We’ll need to revise as we go。”
As they carried on discussing the timetable； I studied Quigley。 He was upright but motionless； like one of those victims in the movies who get stuck with a stiletto while standing in a crowd and die without anyone noticing。 His mouth opened and closed ever so slightly； as if he had a final message to impart。 Yet even at the time I realized he’d asked a perfectly reasonable question。 If he was the editor； why shouldn’t he see the manuscript？ And why did it have to be held in a “secure environment” on an island off the eastern seaboard of the United States？ I felt Rick’s elbow in my ribs and realized Maddox was talking to me。
“How soon can you get over there？ Assuming we go with you rather than one of the others—how fast can you move？”
“It’s Friday today；” I said。 “Give me a day to get ready。 I could fly Sunday。”
“And start Monday？ That would be great。”
Rick said； “You won’t find anyone who can move quicker than that。”
Maddox and Kroll looked at one another and I knew then that I had the job。 As Rick said afterward； the trick is always to put yourself in their position。 “It’s like interviewing a new cleaner。 Do you want someone who can give you the history of cleaning and the theory of cleaning； or do you want someone who’ll just get down and clean your fucking house？ They chose you because they think you’ll clean their fucking house。”
“We’ll go with you；” said Maddox。 He stood and reached over and shook my hand。 “Subject to reaching a satisfactory agreement with Rick here； of course。”
Kroll added； “You’ll also have to sign a nondisclosure agreement。”
“No problem；” I said； also getting to my feet。 That didn’t bother me。 Confidentiality clauses are standard procedure in the ghosting world。 “I couldn’t be happier。”
And I couldn’t have been。 Everyone except Quigley was smiling； and suddenly there was a kind of all…boys； locker…room…after…the…match kind of feeling in the air。 We chatted for a minute or so； and that was when Kroll took me to one side and said； very casually； “I’ve something here you might care to take a look at。”
He reached under the table and pulled out a bright yellow plastic bag with the name of some fancy Washington clothes store printed on it in curly black copperplate。 My first thought was that it must be the manuscript of Lang’s memoirs and that all the stuff about a “secure environment” had been a joke。 But when he saw my expression； Kroll laughed and said； “No； no； it’s notthat 。 It’s just a book by another client of mine。 I’d really appreciate your opinion if you get a chance to look at it。 Here’s my number。” I took his card and slipped it into my pocket。 Quigley still hadn’t said a word。
“I’ll give you a call when we’ve settled the deal；” said Rick。
“Make them howl；” I told him； squeezing his shoulder。
Maddox laughed。 “Hey！ Remember！” he called as Quigley showed me out of the door。 He struck his big fist against his blue…suited chest。 “Heart！”
As we went down in the lift； Quigley stared at the ceiling。 “Was it my imagination； or did I just get fired in there？”
“They wouldn’t let you go； Roy；” I said with all the sincerity I could muster； which wasn’t much。 “You’re the only one left who can remember what publishing used to be like。”
“‘Let you go；’” he said bitterly。 “Yes； that’s the modern euphemism； isn’t it？ As if it’s a favor。 You’re clinging to the edge of a cliff and someone says； ‘Oh； I’m terribly sorry； we’re going to have to let you go。’”
A couple on their lunch break got in at the fourth floor and Quigley was silent until they got off to go to the restaurant on the second。 When the doors closed； he said； “There’s something not right about this project。”
“Me； you mean？”
“No。 Before you。” He froy finger on it。 The way no one’s allowed to see anything； for a start。 And that fellow Kroll makes me shiver。 And poor old Mike McAra； of course。 I met him when we signed the deal two years ago。 He didn’t strike me as the suicidal type。 Rather the reverse。 He was the sort who specializes in making other people want to kill themselves； if you know what I mean。”
“Hard？”
“Hard； yes。 Lang would be smiling away； and there would be this thug next to him with eyes like a snake’s。 I suppose you’ve got to have someone like that when you’re in Lang’s position。”
We reached the ground floor and stepped out into the lobby。 “You can pick up a taxi round the corner；” said Quigley； and for that one small； mean gesture—leaving me to walk in the rain rather than calling me a cab on the company’s account—I hoped he’d rot。 “Tell me；” he said suddenly； “when did it become fashionable to be stupid？ That’s the thing I really don’t understand。 The Cult of the Idiot。 The Elevation of the Moron。 Our two biggest…selling novelists—the actress with the tits and that ex…army psycho—have never written a word of fiction。 Did you know that？”
“You’re talking like an old man； Roy；” I told him。 “People have been complaining that standards are slipping ever since Shakespeare started writing comedies。”
“Yes； but now it’s really happened； hasn’t it？ It was never like this before。”
I knew he was trying to goad me—the ghostwriter to the stars off to produce the memoirs of an ex–prime minister—but I was too full of myself to care。 I wished him well in his retirement and set off across the lobby swinging that damned yellow plastic bag。
IT MUST HAVE TAKENme half an hour to find a ride back into town。 I had only a very hazy idea of where I was。 The roads were wide； the houses small。 There was a steady； freezing drizzle。 My arm was aching from carrying Kroll’s manuscript。 Judging by the weight； I reckoned it must have been close on a thousand pages。 Who was his client？ Tolstoy？ Eventually I stopped at a bus shelter in front of a greengrocer’s and a funeral parlor。 Wedged into its metal frame was the card of a minicab firm。
The journey home took almost an hour and I had plenty of time to take out the manuscript and study it。 The book was calledOne Out of Many 。 It was the memoir of some ancient U。S。 senator； famous only for having kept on breathing for about a hundred and fifty years。 By any normal measure of tedium it was off the scale—up； up； and away； beyond boring into some oxygen…starved stratosphere of utter nullity。 The car was overheated and smelled of stale takeaways。 I began to feel nauseous。 I put the manuscript back into the bag and wound down the window。 The fare was forty pounds。
I had just paid the driver and was crossing the pavement toward my flat； head down into the rain； searching for my keys； when I felt someone touch me lightly on the shoulder。 I turned and walked into a wall； or was hit by a truck—that was the feeling—some great iron force slammed into me； and I fell backward； into the grip of a second man。 （I was told afterward there were two of them； both in their twenties。 One had been hanging round the entrance to the basement flat； the other appeared from nowhere and grabbed me from behind。） I crumpled； felt the gritty wet stone of the gutter against my cheek； and gasped and sucked and cried like a baby。 My fingers must have clasped the plastic bag with involuntary tightness； because I was conscious； through this much greater pain； of a smaller and sharper one—a flute in the symphony—as a foot trod on my hand； and something was torn away。
Surely one